Xiosia. Goddess of nature and balance, or something. And today is her festival.
One of them, anyway. Welcome, Unodin.
Shalmaneser walked through the round gate into Akkaio. The air was heavy with the scents of food and spices and the sounds of music and laughter. He didn’t understand Xiosia. But he understood this. It was celebration. It was community.
“Welcome to the Welcoming!” A cheerful demorian woman greeted him. “Today we celebrate Unodin and give thanks to Xiosia.” Shalmaneser gave a soft smile in response, and kept walking.
Xiosia. Goddess of balance. Nothing can thrive without balance.
What a lie.
These were the thoughts on his mind. What is so natural about balance? Flowers grow from the ashes left from a fire. Xiosia gives life but takes it away soon after. Her world is alternatively kind and violent. Should we call that balance? Maybe.
The music. The style here was different than in Hydlaa. Hydlaa’s music was like its people; full of layers, texture, harmony and discord. Here in Ojaveda, music had a different tendency. Less harmony, more singing lines. Like a breeze through the fields. But nowhere in his travels was music always harmonious. It would be called boring if it was. There was always discord. At least a little.
Xiosia. Goddess of music and harmony.
Music and nature endure. Not despite discord, but because of it. But Shalmaneser didn’t understand Xiosia. Much like he didn’t understand how he came to be where he was. Two seasons ago, he had found himself sitting in a tavern. He didn’t remember very much. He knew he was in Hydlaa. He remembered the taste of ale and the sound of the city at night. But nothing of his past. The possessions he had with him were of little help – a few weapons, many glyphs, a book that won’t open. He only knew his name because someone spoke it to him in his travels after that night. He began to make a living doing courier missions through a local mercantile guild. It was ironic that his jobs usually involved “acquiring” things for well-to-do customers, and yet he had lost so much.
“Xiosia, your children rise from ashes. Today I will light a fire.”
Shalmaneser walked into the crowd and he emptied his pack into the middle of the Dsar. The crowd stopped and stared, and for a moment the celebrating was forgotten as people rushed to pick up all they could grab from the pile of rare glyphs and other items. All that Shalmaneser kept for himself was a pair of daggers and the book. He examine the book, with its barren cover. Barren of writing. There was a jewel on it. Dark purple, almost black.
He tossed the book to the ground, and with a stomp, smashed the jewel. And then something strange happened. Shalmaneser began to remember.
Somewhere in the Death Realm, Setmot woke up.
